Finally Dottie put her finger on the problem.
 
   It seemed pleasant enough.
 
She had spent days counting heads
 
   in the photos of protesting crowds.
 
She’d seen the six-foot wing span,
 
   what nature does to a family, something
 
deep inside us all. An unending
 
   process of stopping and staring.
 
Poster children for existentialism,
 
 weighted and rotund, the solid,
 
seated female nude
 
   suddenly unsettled; caressing form
 
and contour, line and erasure.
 
 Apples rush across a table, their
 
sense of becoming and dissolving
 
 simultaneously. A bouquet of flowers
 
suggests a swarm of bees.
 
   It seemed like work to drink it.